Heed not the folk who sing or say
In sonnet sad or sermon chill,
"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,
This round world's but a bitter pill."
Poor porcupines of fretful quill!
Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:
We, too, are sad and careful; still
We'd rather be alive than not.
What though we wish the cats at play
Would some one else's garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray
And all our worshipped Worcester spill,
Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill,
Though May be cold and June be hot,
Though April freeze and August grill,
We'd rather be alive than not.
And, sometimes, on a summer's day
To self and every mortal ill
We give the slip, we steal away,
To lie beside some sedgy rill;
The darkening years, the cares that kill,
A little while are well forgot;
Deep in the broom upon the hill
We'd rather be alive than not.
Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil
The task thy braggart tongue begot.
We eat our leek with better will,
We'd rather be alive than not.
Graham R. Tomson.
BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS.
So quaintly sadly mute they hang,
We ask in vain what fingers played,
What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,
What songs in life's brief masquerade,—
What old-world catch or serenade,
What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs
Found voice when maid or ruffling blade
Sang long-forgot familiar airs.
We only know that once they rang
In oaken room and forest glade,
Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;
When earth and heaven itself were made
For roistering off a Spanish raid,
To drown in such life's shallower cares,
Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,
To long-forgot familiar airs.
Dead all—a pun for every pang
(So Shakespeare then the race portrayed
That fought and revelled, danced and sprang
Half-way to meet death undismayed);
About them gather mist and shade,
Yet Time ironically spares
These strings on which their fingers strayed
To long-forgot familiar airs.